


Cap Catches Up

by doctor_jones



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Baseball, Friendship, Gen, SHIELD, steve adjusting to modern life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jones/pseuds/doctor_jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a short elevator ride, a S.H.I.E.L.D. pencil-pusher finds unexpected common ground with Steve Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net, but I'm trying to edit a lot of old things and migrate them here. I'm shackletons-sardines on Tumblr, if you dig on Steve Rogers and Supernatural fic and silly original writing. Critiques and comments welcome.

The elevator doors closed behind me. I dumped my laptop bag on the floor and wrapped my hands around the rail, staring through the glass at the long shadows of the landscape below. 6:30 pm. Just enough time, if I sped.

"Garage." The elevator pinged in response and began to descend. I let out the sigh I'd been holding in all day and pressed my forehead to the elevator wall, watching the plaza rise to meet me. Some security staffer somewhere was no doubt watching me loosen my metaphorical tie and chuckling about it, but I was too exhausted to care. In ten minutes I'd be out the door, tasting my first free Friday night in months, and it was gonna taste like a ballpark hot dog. I shook my ass in a little happy dance for the security staffer's benefit.

Two tickets to the Cubs-Nationals game were tucked inside the scorebook which rested in my laptop bag. An old friend was in town, and tonight I'd planned to take him to his first baseball game, but he'd begged off - something about "going to this amazing bar" and "might die of boredom." I didn't mind. I felt the beginnings of a smile at the thought of scoring the game, or making friends with the fans sitting next to me. Another sigh, this one blissed-out, full of the smell of fresh-cut grass and popcorn.

The elevator slowed a little too soon. Someone else was getting on. I made a move to turn around and pick up the laptop bag, but I only got as far as swinging my right arm vaguely backwards. So I stayed, forehead pressed against the glass, hoping fervently that whoever it was didn’t feel like making conversation.

"Long day?"

Recognition jolted through me like an electric shock, and each of my limbs tried to flee in a different direction. I managed to turn around - _don’t stare don’t stare don’t stare_ \- and found the elevator doors sliding closed behind the owner of that voice I had hoped I was wrong about. Smiling at me kindly, and looking a touch bemused, was Steve “Captain God-Damn America” Rogers.

_Crap. Where do I look? Don’t stare at his chin. He has to be an alien, the only other guy that looks this freakishly perfect is from Asgard. Where’d he get that leather jacket? Shit, he’s going to tell Fury how awkward I am -_

  
"I think you dropped something." Rogers bent down, picking up my scorebook where it had fallen out of the laptop bag. It was spiral-bound, hardcover, a little indulgence gifted to me by a friend. The two tickets jutted from the top, marking the next free page for tonight’s game.

  
Rogers examined it for a moment. “May I?”

  
I nodded. The adrenaline rush of finding myself on an elevator with someone _extremely famous and superhumanly powerful_ was beginning to die down. I suppose I’d always known it was possible - plenty of my friends had stories about winding up in the elevator with Romanov or Stark - but in my three years at S.H.I.E.L.D., I hadn’t yet met any of the big guns in person. Cap - Captain Rogers, I reminded myself - was huge, a tall and well-built figure in his pleated slacks and military-style leather jacket, but something made me stop short of the word “intimidating.” Watching him flip through my scorebook with a smile of recognition, he just seemed so damn _earnest_.

Somewhere underneath the diminishing heart palpitations, I found my voice. “You a baseball fan?” I managed. “Uh… sir?”

  
He laughed. “At ease, soldier. Steve.” He shook my hand, passing the scorebook back to me.

  
"Karen," I offered, as our hands met.

  
"I used to keep score at ballgames too," he said. "It’s nice to see that some things haven’t changed."

  
He turned away. I surreptitiously scrubbed at the smear my forehead had left on the glass. I just ended up making it bigger.

  
The silence hung a little heavier than was comfortable. “What floor?” I prompted. Rogers turned back and raised his eyebrows politely. I made a vague gesture at the unmoving elevator.

  
"What floor?"

  
"Oh. Right." He cleared his throat. "Uh, Garage." The elevator slid smoothly back into its descent, and Rogers gave me a wry smile. "Other things have changed quite a bit."

  
It was an offhand comment, but I felt a flash of heartache for the Captain - a quick and selfish impulse to offer him a thread of his old life. Something to let me feel a little less homesick on his behalf. And besides - I wanted to talk baseball.

  
"New York, right? You grew up in New York?" I asked. He nodded. "Were you a Yankees fan?"

  
"Dodgers," he corrected. "The Yankees broke my heart in 1941. I think I spent every spare penny I had on tickets that season. We were so good…" He grinned, and I could almost see Ebbets Field in his eyes. "First pennant in twenty years."

  
"Have you been to see them yet?"

  
"Haven’t had the chance. It’s a longer trip than it used to be."

  
"The Giants moved out west in 1957, too. They’re still pretty big rivals."

  
Rogers chuckled. “I remember when we ruined their shot at the World Series. Best part of a miserable season.”

  
"I know that feeling," I said, as the elevator doors slid open to the parking garage. "I’m a Cubs fan. We’ve had a lot of miserable seasons."

  
We stepped out together and paused in front of the elevator. “I remember the Cubs being pretty respectable,” Rogers said. “Couldn’t quite seem to win a championship, though.”

  
I laughed, probably a little too loudly.

  
He lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me.”

  
I stared at Rogers for a moment, then pulled a grimace and hung my head. Peals of laughter echoed off the concrete walls. “Oh, Karen, I am so sorry.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “But it’s nice to know there’s something out there older than me.”

  
"Sure, rub it in." I rolled my eyes. "You know, speaking of things that are older than you - if you get the chance, you should take in a game at Wrigley Field."

  
"They still play there?"

  
"They do, and I’m guessing it’ll feel pretty familiar. Hand-turned scoreboard, live organ, none of the big flashing lights."

  
The thought seemed to take Rogers slightly aback. He lifted his gaze somewhere behind and to the right of me, across the garage. He said nothing, and I couldn't read his expression.

  
"Yeah." The moment passed, and he nodded, turning back with a smile. "That sounds pretty good. Though I’m hoping it won’t take a trip to Chicago for me to see another baseball game."

  
"Then I guess it’s your lucky night." I pulled the spare ticket from my scorebook and held it out to him. I saw polite refusal forming on his face before I’d even finished my sentence. But when his eyes landed on the ticket in front of him, his excuse died in a reluctant smile.

  
"What, like you’ve got something better to do?"

  
His eyes flicked up to mine, and the smile became a lopsided grin. “I guess I don’t.” He took the ticket and turned it over in his hand, before looking up at me. “I’ll meet you there.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve being a huge fan of Jackie Robinson (once he finds out who Jackie was) is a Very Important Headcanon for me.

The National Anthem was just beginning as I trotted into the stadium. I felt a flash of frustration at missing the lineups, but I'd just fill them out as the game went on. The crowd was sparse, the spacious concourse fairly empty. A weeknight game against a dead-last team probably wasn’t the biggest attendance draw. I started up the ramps.

Our seats were in the upper deck - not quite the nosebleeds, but definitely nothing fancy. Somebody would get around to inviting Captain America, of all people, to a Nationals game sooner or later, and I was glad he hadn’t been spoiled by field boxes yet. I tucked the gift I’d gotten him - okay, I fished it out of the trunk of my car - under my arm as I reached our section.

He wasn’t hard to find. For one, he was taller than everyone in the immediate vicinity. For another, he was the only one standing in a rigid salute as the last notes of the Anthem died away. I slid in next to him and smiled to see that he’d bought himself a scorecard.  _Oh, shit, with the lineups already filled out, yessss._  I grabbed it out of his hand.

"Hello to you too," Rogers laughed.

I gave him an embarrassed grin. “Just give me a second.” I sat down, opened my scorebook, and began furiously copying the lineups. On the field, the managers shook hands with the umpires at home plate.

"Is - does that say ‘Harper’ or ‘Rendon’? For someone who grew up before computers, your handwriting is horrible."

He snatched the scorecard out of my lap. “My handwriting is fine. You just can’t read anything that isn't typed.”

"Okay, grandpa."

"And it says ‘Harper.’" He squinted at the scorecard. "I think."

A cheer went up around us as the Nationals took the field. I scribbled down the last few names in my scorebook and picked up the hat I’d dug out of my car. It was a gag gift from a friend, for the third anniversary of my move to DC, and I couldn't imagine a better use for it than this one.

"Here," I held it out, "I thought you might need a hat."

Rogers looked, not at the hat, but at me. “Thanks,” he said with a half-smile, taking it from my fingers. He inspected the logo.

"What’s ‘elb’?"

"No, it’s - look, it’s an ‘M.’ For ‘Montreal.’" I pointed. "And, yeah, there’s an ‘e’ and a ‘b’ for ‘Expos baseball.’"

He pointed. “That part looks like an ‘l.’”

"You’re not the first to say that."

Rogers laughed. “So we have baseball in Canada now?” He turned the hat around and gave the Velcro at the back an intrigued frown.

"Yep! MLB has gone international." Rip. "Barely." Rip. "The Toronto Blue Jays are the only Canadian team now." Rip. "I know that’s not the first Velcro you’ve seen, Rogers."

"It’s not, no, but it gets me every time." Rip. "Really clever stuff."

I rolled my eyes and jotted down a play in my scorebook. “Just put the hat on.”

"Hey. When you’re surrounded by Stark technology every day, it’s important to appreciate the simple things."

Yesterday in the S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria, my plate had recommended more protein in my diet. “Fair enough,” I nodded.

Rogers adjusted the Velcro one final time and pulled the hat down low on his forehead. He turned to me with a grin. “How do I look?”

At that moment, the crack of bat on ball echoed through the park, and Rogers’ gaze snapped to the field. It was a long fly into the right-center gap, and the Nats’ right fielder made a dramatic diving catch. Rogers was on his feet, clapping and cheering.

 _Comfortable_ , I thought, smiling.

He sat down again and marked the play on his scorecard. “So if Toronto is the only Canadian team in the league, what happened to Montreal?” he asked.

I waved at the field. “You’re lookin’ at ‘em.”

"Well, this-" he touched the brim of the hat- "makes a lot more sense now. So, wait. You’re telling me that the capital city of the United States has a Canadian baseball team?"

I waved over a beer vendor, holding up two fingers. “Basically.”

Rogers barked a laugh, shaking his head. I maneuvered a beer into his hand. Once the vendor handed me my own, Rogers raised his plastic cup to mine in a brief toast.

"Sixteen fifty," drawled the beer vendor.

I peeled a twenty from the folded bills in my pocket and handed it to him. “Keep it.” Next to me, Rogers made a choking noise and started to cough.

"What?"

He shook his head, still coughing. “Nothing.”

"If it’s any consolation, I think most people feel that way about ballpark prices."

We watched the game in silence for a while. Rogers leaned forward, elbows on knees, his eyes glued to the field. He sipped his beer slowly, and after each play he turned to make a mark on his scoresheet. We cheered at opposite moments, and when I booed the umpire on a called ball four, Rogers laughed. “I gotta tell you,” he chuckled, “I’m kind of surprised they still have umpires.”

"You and a lot of very smart people," I groused.

At the inning break, he turned to me. “I’m sorry, I never asked. What do you do for S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

"I work in accounting." I smiled. "Not very exciting, unless you’re really into numbers."

"Are you?"

"Yeah, I guess I am."

We lapsed into silence again, watching the Nats’ pitcher take his warmup tosses. A breeze blew in from center field, and to our left, the sun was setting. The scattered clouds were a deep, rosy orange. A rock song played over the stadium PA, and a group of twentysomethings below us danced and sang to the music. I slouched down, propping my knees against the empty seat in front of me.

Rogers pointed straight ahead of us, out into left field. “What’s that number over there?”

Just to the left of the visitors’ bullpen, on the outfield wall padding, was a decal. It bore the image of a large baseball with ‘42’ in the center.

I sat up straight in my seat, eyes trained on Rogers' face. “That’s Jackie Robinson’s number. He was the first black MLB player.”

Rogers stared intently at the number on the wall. His face was serious, eyebrows knitted. “When?”

"April 15, 1947. With the Dodgers. You only missed him by a couple years."

He looked at me, a smile breaking across his face. “How was he?”

"Unbelievable."

For the next three innings, our scorecards sat untouched beneath our seats in favor of my smartphone. We looked up Robinson’s stats and found video clips of his games. When I told Rogers that Jackie had been an Army man, his eyes widened, and he leaned over my shoulder, scanning for details.

Suddenly a hand was blocking my screen as Rogers pointed to a black and white picture. “He was with the 761st Tank Battalion. I met them in Vic-sur-Seille. Must’ve been November of 1944.”

"No way. Was Robinson there?" I looked over at him.

Rogers shook his head, eyes fixed on the tiny photo. “Not that I remember. But the Howling Commandos and I, we were pretty busy at the time.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. He cleared his throat.

"I, uh, probably shouldn’t talk about it."

Another few minutes of Googling revealed that  _The Jackie Robinson Story_  was in the public domain, and several someones had very thoughtfully posted it to YouTube.

"It’s a movie about his experiences. He played himself in it. You should check it out."

"Where’s it showing?"

"How has nobody explained YouTube to you yet?"

"Alright, walk me through it."

"Uh… Do you know how to type?"

"Don’t get smart, Karen."

"I was born smart, Steve."

"In that case, I have a lot of sympathy for your parents."

"But seriously, do you-"

A rising cheer cut me off, and we got to our feet just in time to see a Nats batter streaking around the bases. The Cubs’ left fielder was fishing around in the corner, and by the time he hit the cutoff man, a run was in and there was a man on third. The stands were going nuts, and even Rogers was whooping. A nearby fan held a hand up to him, and Rogers froze for a second or two before recalling that he was supposed to slap it.

I threw my arms up and dropped heavily into my seat. Rogers sat down next to me and pulled out his scorecard. “Who hit that?”

I shot him a smirk. “What’s the matter, can’t read your lineup?”

"You’re hilarious."

"I’m right."

Rogers pointed to the scoreboard. “You’re _losing_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Again, comments and critiques welcome.

Our silhouettes led us out into the parking lot as the PA announcer read out the particulars of the game. Steve’s shadow was a good three feet longer than mine, broad-shouldered and long-legged. God,  _everything_  about him was disgustingly heroic.

I reached up behind him and made shadow-puppet wings on either side of his head.

"What are you-"

"There we go," I said, tipping my head toward our silhouettes. "I knew something was missing."

Steve laughed. “Think I should ask S.H.I.E.L.D. to put those back on the helmet? I hear vintage is in these days.”

We walked slowly through the lot. The chatter of other fans thinned out around us as they each found their cars. The orange light from the streetlamps hung close, swallowing up our voices as Steve ragged me about my last-place team. They’d certainly played the part this evening - they fell in spectacular double-digit fashion to the hometown heroes, which I guess was only appropriate.

"Don’t worry. You’ll get ‘em next time," said Steve, his face a mask of innocence. I shoved him, or tried to - all I managed to do was knock myself off-balance, and elevate Steve’s smile to a wicked grin.

Soon enough, he stopped walking and pulled out a set of keys. When I saw the car, a low whistle passed my lips. Steve looked back at me and smiled.

"You like it?"

 The car was a classic Mustang, painted black with red racing stripes. I don't know too much about cars, but I knew that this one was gorgeous.

Eyebrows raised, I looked over at Steve. “Not quite your era, is it?”

"I’m making up for lost time." He slid into the driver’s seat and reached across to unlock the passenger-side door. "Let me give you a ride to your car."

Well, hell. You don’t need to ask me twice.

In the end, we took a couple turns around the stadium. Steve wanted an excuse to show off his car’s muscle, and he only looked a little bit guilty when he startled some pedestrians with the engine noise. Finally, we pulled up to my sad-looking blue sedan, nearly alone in the lot.

I got out and walked around to the driver’s side. Steve extended a hand through the window. “Thanks for the invitation,” he said, smiling.

I took his hand. “Thanks for joining me.”

"I owe you a beer. Let’s settle up sometime soon."

I gave him a lazy salute. “You got it, Cap.”

The Mustang’s engine roared as he pulled away. I shook my head, a grin tugging at the corners of my lips. Boys and their toys.

* * *

Steve would eventually buy me that beer, and then a couple more on top of it. We never quite settled our “debt” - it just seesawed back and forth between us, prompting Steve on more than one occasion to mock my accounting skills.

Sometimes Natasha Romanov would join us, and those were the nights that invariably got out of hand: vodka shots, karaoke, smartphones full of incriminating pictures. Steve would always tell her that he was never inviting her again. And then, eventually, he always would. We had both resigned ourselves to the inevitability of blackmail.

"Don’t tell me you’re tired."

I smiled at the voice, lifting my forehead from the elevator’s glass wall and turning to face him. The leather jacket was the same, but instead of pleated slacks, Steve wore jeans and a Nats cap. In his hand were the keys to the Mustang. A circular keychain dangled from them, Dodger-blue ‘42’ in the center.

"Not on your life," I grinned. "You’re buying."


End file.
